


You Want Me Too (Let's Make a Move)

by Solarcat



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: 2010-2011 NHL Season, Anal Sex, Arizona Coyotes, First Time, M/M, Phoenix Coyotes, blink and you'll miss it Biz/Pysie, just go with it, they probably didn't live in the condo yet but shhhhhh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-01
Updated: 2014-11-01
Packaged: 2018-02-23 12:46:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2547956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solarcat/pseuds/Solarcat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Oliver Ekman-Larsson scores his first NHL goal on January 17, 2011, on home ice, against Antti Niemi and the San Jose Sharks. Arguably, Mikkel Bødker also scores that night.</p><p>(Link to pairing primer in the notes!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Want Me Too (Let's Make a Move)

**Author's Note:**

> So this is apparently what happens when I listen to too much One Direction on the way home from class, then chatfic at people. (Not that I'm complaining, mind!)
> 
> Big thanks to Saxihighlandck for cheerleading and reading this over, and Kinetikatrue for beta'ing! <3
> 
> There are probably a lot of people who have no idea who these guys are, so. Here is a primer to get you started! It has background info, boyfriend-y-ness, and lots of pictures of attractive hockey-playing Scandinavians:  
> [Precious Scandinavian Boyfriends: A Mikkel Bødker/Oliver Ekman-Larsson Primer](http://solarcat.tumblr.com/post/100954830666/precious-scandinavian-boyfriends-a-mikkel)

_(January 17, 2011)_

 

They lose the game. 

The room isn’t exactly celebratory after a loss at home, but it was a better game than the 4-2 final score would suggest, so the guys aren’t as down as they could be. Oliver can’t stop smiling, though, loss or no. Every time Mikkel glances over at his stall, Olie’s staring at the puck in his hands, at the _First NHL Goal_ scrawled on the tape around it, his slightly lopsided grin taking over his whole face. It’s so infectious that Mikkel can’t help smiling right back, whenever Oliver looks up and catches his eyes.

Nobody seems to mind that Olie’s not properly upset by the loss; if anything, his goal is the bright spot of the night, and the guys keep stopping by his stall, sticks tapping against his shinpads, hands mussing his sweaty hair, lots of _good job, kid._ Oliver’s not even fully out of his gear by the time Biz stops in front of him, one arm looped around Pysie’s neck like Pysie might try to get away if Biz doesn’t keep hold of him.

“We’re going out to celebrate!” he declares, and from the look on his face, it takes Olie a moment to figure out that _we_ includes him. “Get your ass in gear, O, Pysie’s hungry,” he concludes, shaking Pysie after a moment’s silence.

“Starving,” Pysie confirms, in his _Paul is crazy, just go with it_ voice. 

Olie shoots Mikkel a questioning look, because they ride in together, and Mikkel shrugs back. It’s dinner time anyway, and Biz can be a bit much sometimes, but he’s right. It’s Oliver’s first NHL goal. He deserves for them to celebrate it.

“I could eat,” Mikkel says, and Olie grins at him. 

“You’re paying, right Biz?” Oliver smirks, devious, and Biz squawks in protest, but Pysie’s grinning, too, so Olie’s totally gonna win this one.

“You walked right into that one, Paul,” Pysie says, getting an elbow into Biz’s side, and Biz pouts at him.

“I don’t love you anymore, Pysie,” he threatens, but sighs and relents. “Okay, fine. Dinner’s on me, but you’re buying your own drinks!”

Oliver rolls his eyes, because he’s nineteen and the Coyotes aren’t well-known enough in town for any bartender to be willing to serve him underage; Mikkel can barely get served, even though he’s _actually_ twenty-one now, because the local bartenders refuse to believe his Danish passport is real. Even if Biz isn’t buying the drinks, _someone_ will be, and it won’t be Oliver.

“Biz is buying dinner!” Pysie hollers, to various cheers around the room, and Biz looks betrayed. 

“Pysie! How could you!?” he moans dramatically.

Oliver shoots another look at Mikkel, smiling as he flips his puck absentmindedly, ignoring the commotion in front of his stall. Mikkel smiles back. He always smiles back.

~*~

They end up at a steakhouse in Scottsdale, because hockey players are creatures of habit, and it’s a nice place with good food that happens to be within a ten minute drive of a lot of the guys’ houses. It’s the kind of place that doesn’t mind a big group of guys showing up and taking up a table for the entire night, not when they spend the kind of money they’re spending. It’s also the kind of place that won’t actually serve Oliver alcohol, but turns a blind eye to the way drinks keep migrating in front of him.

It’s a little bit like torture.

Mikkel sits next to Olie, because Olie’s his best friend and his roommate and because they like sitting together. Mikkel used to sit next to Kyle at these things, but Kyle’s gotten kind of weird, and he didn’t even come out with them tonight. There’s some differences, though. For one thing, Mikkel has never — not once — imagined what it would be like to kiss Kyle Turris.

So he sits next to Oliver at their packed table, their thighs pressed up against each other even though Olie’s pretty skinny and could probably open up some space if he wanted to. This is the problem. The problem is all the times, in the past few months, when Mikkel has been looking, only to find Oliver looking _back_. The problem is the way that Olie gets kind of cuddly when he gets tipsy, leaning into Mikkel and letting his hands wander further than they should. 

It’s not too noticeable. Not more noticeable than, say, the way Biz aggressively cuddles Pysie whenever given the opportunity. But then, Biz spends most of his off-time in Vegas going to pool parties full of bikini-clad women with a lot of … assets. No one thinks he’s serious. No one thinks Oliver’s serious, when he seeks out slightly-drunken hugs. Yet.

Mikkel likes to think of himself as a good guy, but if he were really that good, he would put a stop to it. Maybe you can be gay in the NHL; Mikkel knows you can be, because he’s in the NHL, and he knows some things he won’t ever tell anyone about some other guys. Being gay in the NHL isn’t the problem. The problem is that no one can _know_. Olie’s so _obvious_ sometimes, the way he looks at Mikkel, and if the guys haven’t noticed yet, they will eventually. Mikkel should shut him down, should sit him down and explain all the reasons that it would be a terrible idea, all the reasons Oliver needs to stop _looking_.

It’s later in the evening, somewhere around the third round of appetizer orders and after a few of the guys have taken off to go home to their families, when Olie leans over Mikkel to look at something on Korpi’s phone, planting his hand on Mikkel’s thigh for balance since the table in front of them is littered with dirty plates and too many empty and mostly-empty glasses. He laughs at the picture, and Mikkel laughs too, though he has no idea what the picture even was. When Olie leans back into his own space, which is half Mikkel’s space, he leaves his hand right where it is. He avoids looking at Mikkel, conspicuous about it, and this is why Mikkel should put a stop to this. But Olie’s hand is warm, and his cheeks are flushed, and Mikkel likes it too much. So instead of pushing the hand away, he leans back, stretching his arm out across the back of Oliver’s chair, brushing the nape of Olie’s neck with his fingertips on the way. He spreads his legs a little wider, pressing his thigh against Oliver’s more tightly. 

Mikkel keeps his gaze steady when Oliver looks at him with wide, startled eyes, his fingers tightening reflexively, the tip of his little finger just brushing Mikkel’s inseam. The bright, crooked smile works its way back onto Olie’s face as he rejoins the conversation around the table. His hand stays.

There’s a tablecloth. No one can see.

~*~

They take a cab home, because Mikkel doesn’t want to be picked up for drunk driving and Olie’s still underage in the States. There’s not much of a chance of being recognized, but Mikkel tips the driver a twenty when they get out anyway, just in case. Oliver leans against him the whole time, controlled enough that Mikkel knows he’s doing it on purpose, not because he can’t stand up straight. Neither of them is actually _drunk_ , just a bit tipsy and giggly by the time they finally get into the condo. 

Mikkel drops his suit jacket over the back of the couch and Oliver’s right there when he turns around, still smiley and bright and sort of irresistible. He comes in close and his smile fades a little as he reaches out and catches the edge of Mikkel’s dress shirt in his fingers.

“Is this okay?” Olie asks, quiet, afraid that asking means _no_ , and Mikkel is done, absolutely done. All of his reasons for not sitting too close and not hugging too long and trying not to look at all of Oliver’s skin on display when he gets out of the shower in the morning just don’t even seem to matter. 

So he just says, “Yeah, Olie, it’s okay,” and smiles back and tilts his head up when Oliver leans in and kisses him. It’s a little awkward at first, because they’re still a little tipsy and both of them are out of practice, but Mikkel gets his hand on Oliver’s cheek to tilt his head just a bit and then it works. It’s good, so good, even if the kiss tastes kind of like beer, and it’s even better when Mikkel drags Oliver backwards and down onto the couch, straddling Mikkel’s thighs. He can feel Olie getting hard against him, and it’s such a turn-on that Mikkel loses track of things for a while, but somehow Olie’s suit jacket ends up on the floor. 

By the time they’ve got both their shirts untucked and unbuttoned and Mikkel’s finally gotten his hands on Oliver the way he’s wanted to since about five minutes after they met, they’re both breathing hard and their kisses have turned kind of frantic. Olie’s practically humping Mikkel’s abs, and Mikkel could keep going like that, he really could, because this is already more than he ever let himself think he could have. 

But then Olie stills, meets Mikkel’s eyes and says, “I want to fuck you,” in this stunned voice, like he can’t believe he’s saying it even as he’s saying it, but then he says it again, more desperate, “I want to fuck you, can I —“ and Mikkel cuts him off by kissing him hard and fast because just the thought of it is making his dick throb. 

“Yeah, yes, Olie,” he gasps out as Oliver grinds against him again, _yes_ , he wants that. “Yeah, let’s—“ and Oliver nearly falls on the floor as he scrambles off Mikkel’s lap, clearly in favor of _bedroom, now_. 

They both leave their shirts somewhere in the hall, before Mikkel tugs them into his room. It’s the closest, plus Mikkel knows he has condoms and lube in his nightstand, and he has no idea if Oliver does or not. They get their own pants off, because _naked_ is just as important as _bedroom_ , and both of them nearly trip pulling their socks off and it’s ridiculous and perfect when they fall into each other, bare and hard and laughing. Mikkel shoves Oliver down onto the bedspread and he goes willingly, scooting back toward the middle while Mikkel fishes out the lube and a strip of condoms and tosses them up by the pillows. 

Mikkel crawls up over him, situates himself on Oliver’s thighs so Olie can’t move; so Mikkel can just _look_ at him for a minute, examine the light definition of his muscles. He’s not as bulky as he’ll be in a few years, and he’ll always be slender, but Mikkel can see the shape of him, what he’s growing into. He drinks in the flush that’s overtaken Olie’s cheeks and neck and spread down his chest, the the hard points of his nipples, and his pink cock dripping precome all over his belly. 

He gets his fingers around Oliver’s length, spreads that glistening wetness down his shaft and jerks him a few times while Oliver makes breathy noises, his fingers digging into Mikkel’s thighs and his hips trying to thrust upward. When Oliver starts scrabbling at him with his nails, making little protesting noises, Mikkel pauses. 

It’s just long enough for Oliver to whine, “No, I’m gonna come if you keep— Please—“ so Mikkel takes his hand off Oliver’s cock and grabs the lube instead. He slides it into Oliver’s grip as he leans forward, up on his knees, but Oliver looks at the tube like he’s never seen it before, deer in headlights. “I’ve never done this,” he admits after a second, “not, you know,” he gestures with the lube, nervous like he thinks Mikkel might suddenly decide to put his pants back on or something. 

In reality, Mikkel’s dick twitches at the thought of it, a jolt of _want_ coursing through him. Not that he’s got all that much experience himself, but he’s done this a couple of times; one guy back with Frölunda and a couple of guys in Kitchener. It’s enough that Mikkel knows what to do, anyway, so he takes the lube out of Oliver’s grip and pops it open with one hand, takes Oliver’s hand in his other, and pours some out onto his fingers. 

“It’s all right,” Mikkel says, “I’ll show you.” He makes sure the lid’s secure again before putting the tube aside and planting one hand on the bedspread by Oliver’s chest. Olie’s eyes are huge and dark as Mikkel guides his hand back, their fingers tangled together as he helps Oliver find his entrance. 

It’s been a couple of years since he’s gotten fucked, but Oliver doesn’t seem to be in a hurry, so Mikkel doesn’t even bother to tell him to go slow; he just lets Oliver feel around, his slicked fingers sliding frictionless over Mikkel’s skin. It feels good, even before he guides Oliver’s fingers in. 

“ _Ah_ ,” Mikkel breathes as Oliver slips two inside, just his fingertips, but the stretch is unfamiliar after so long. Oliver stills, afraid he’s done something wrong, but Mikkel leans down until Oliver leans _up_ in response, and kisses him. “It’s good, keep going,” he orders. 

Oliver obeys, thrusting his fingers in slowly, a little bit deeper every time, and Mikkel can feel himself loosening up, body remembering how to do this, how good it feels. He lets Olie have his own way after a bit, disentangles their fingers so he can stroke his own cock a few times, remembered habit more than anything since he hasn’t gotten soft at all. Olie’s face is enough to keep him hard, the way he’s looking slack-jawed at where their erections are almost-but-not-quite touching. There’s no way he can see, from this angle, where he’s fingering Mikkel open; he can’t watch, but Mikkel knows he’s imagining it. 

“Are you ready?” Mikkel asks once he knows he is, once Oliver’s fingers are sliding easy in and out. He hasn’t managed to hit Mikkel’s prostate, but they can work on that. 

“Yeah,” Oliver agrees, withdrawing his fingers one last time but not sure where to put his hand, after that, settling for the back of Mikkel’s thigh, spreading lube everywhere. 

Mikkel tears open the condom packet, pinches the tip and rolls it down Oliver’s cock while Oliver moans and twitches, and Mikkel has a feeling Olie’s not going to last very long, but then, Mikkel isn’t either. He spreads more lube over the condom, then rolls to the side, gets to where he can settle himself on his knees and forearms, letting his back curve and his hips tilt up. 

Oliver blinks at him for a second, then catches on, sitting up, then rolling onto his knees. He makes a low sound when he finally gets to where he can see Mikkel all spread out for him, and Mikkel smiles when he hears Olie whisper, “Oh, fuck,” like he probably didn’t even mean to say it out loud.

It makes Mikkel smile, but he just says, “You know what to do,” holding his position as Oliver moves up close behind him, kneeling in the space between Mikkel’s calves. The first brush of Olie’s cock against him is tentative, but then Olie lines himself up and starts to press in. It doesn’t quite work the first time; he’s not holding onto himself, he’s got both hands on Mikkel, on his hip and his ass, but he figures it out quickly, holds his cock when he tries to thrust in again. They both groan as the head pops in, Mikkel stretched tight around Olie’s shaft. He can feel Oliver tremble, and his own muscles aren’t so steady, either. 

Oliver freezes there, holding on to Mikkel’s hips for dear life, and Mikkel knows better than to move. He remembers being on the other side of this, so sure he would come in a second if he so much as twitched. It ends up being a full minute, maybe two, before Oliver’s breaths start to loosen up, backing down from the edge of his orgasm, and he nudges forward another inch or so.

Mikkel groans and makes encouraging noises, says “Yeah, Olie, just like that,” as Olie pushes in a little more, a little deeper, slow until he finally bottoms out.

Olie breathes a shocky little, “ _Oh_ ,” pausing again, just a moment this time, before trying an experimental thrust. 

“Fuck, Olie,” Mikkel says, dropping his forehead to the comforter and gasping for air. 

Oliver grunts a quietly as he does it again, and again, and then he’s building up a rhythm, steady and sure, and Mikkel has to reach between his legs and stroke himself because it’s _so good_ , and even better when Olie manages to hit his prostate every few thrusts; it’s by accident, but the uneven jolts of pleasure keep knocking Mikkel off balance in the best way. He knows he’s not going to last, and Oliver’s not going to last, but right now it’s fucking perfect. 

“Mikkel, I’m not— I’m gonna come,” Oliver gasps eventually, and Mikkel nods as well as he can, with his head down against the bed.

“C’mon, yeah,” he urges, and tenses up even tighter around Oliver’s cock. Oliver moans and buries himself deep, just a few more shallow thrusts and then he’s shaking, voiceless, as he comes. Mikkel doesn’t take his hand off his own cock, keeps stroking himself as Oliver collapses over him, trembling, and he doesn’t expect when Oliver’s hand reaches around to join his own, their fingers tangling up again. Mikkel’s hips jerk as he fucks into their combined hands. 

Oliver’s still inside him, slowly going soft, when he asks, “Micke, are you close?” in Mikkel’s ear, and that’s all it takes. 

He comes with a long, satisfied groan, all over their hands and the bedspread beneath them, and Oliver flinches, oversensitive, at the way Mikkel clenches up around him, but he doesn’t stop the movements of his hand on Mikkel’s cock, stroking him through it. Mikkel’s thighs give out on him and he ends up with his stomach in the pool of his own come, but as Olie finally pulls out of him, he finds he doesn’t care, the afterglow overwhelming anything else. 

Oliver takes care of the condom, tying it off and then looking around until Mikkel points him toward a wastebasket tucked in beside the nightstand. “Um. Should I go?” he asks warily after a moment, sitting back down on the bed after disposing of it. 

Mikkel picks himself up enough to reach out and snag Oliver around the waist, holding him down. He’s about to answer, when the gross feeling of cooling semen really hits, and he wrinkles his nose at it. “I was going to say no,” he says after a second, “But we’re both going. I’ll wash it in the morning,” he decides out loud, hauling himself up and tugging Oliver along with him. 

Oliver still seems confused until Mikkel drags him down the hall the few feet to Oliver’s bedroom, where the bedspread isn’t rumpled and doesn’t smell like come. Instead, the sheets are cool and Oliver is warm against him, happy to be the little spoon even though he’s a good three inches taller. 

“Thank you,” Oliver says, and Mikkel hugs him tighter. 

“Shh,” he shushes, kissing the nape of Oliver’s neck, then the little hollow under his ear. _This is dangerous_ , he doesn’t say. _Someone could find out._ They’re both still new to the league, even though Mikkel’s got a couple of years under his belt. Someone could figure out that the finger-shaped bruises on Mikkel’s hips weren’t made by a girl. There’s so much to fear, but Oliver melts back against him like he belongs there, like he’s always belonged there, and Mikkel’s stupid enough to take the risk and not stupid enough to give Oliver up, now that he has him. He doesn’t say any of it; Oliver already knows. 

“So,” he says instead, “ _Micke_ , huh?” and Olie tenses, embarrassed, mumbling something that Mikkel can’t make out. 

“I like it,” he says, after a moment, rescuing Olie from himself. 

“Yeah?” Oliver asks, and it’s more than asking if it’s okay to use a nickname. 

Mikkel nods, knows Olie can feel it. “Yeah.”


End file.
